High Speed
by HoistTheColours
Summary: Wrong place, wrong time.
1. Chapter 1

You're tired.

It was another long, boring day at the office again, and that fat guy in the cubicle across from yours kept not-so-furtively glancing at your ass every time you happened to walk by. He's hit on you several times over the course of the three years that you've worked here, and now the game's just getting old. He just doesn't seem to take a hint.

He's pestered you nonstop today especially, popping into your cubicle at every hour and every coffee break, beleaguering you with questions about your personal life and _do you have a boyfriend?_ and all that jazz.

You try to be nice, you really do. You feel bad for him, in a way. He claims that he just wants to get to know you better, wants to see if the two of you have anything in common, but you know that you don't. What he _really_ wants is probably just a way into your pants. You don't flaunt it the way you should, nor are you boastful about it, but you're pretty sexy, even if you won't admit it. You try to be modest when someone compliments you, but you can't deny the fact that God bestowed upon you the gift of beauty. It happens sometimes. I mean, come on, it's no wonder what's-his-name is always checking out your ass.

It's almost ten o'clock when you finally step into the subway car, secluding yourself somewhere in the back where you can rest your head against the window and not have to worry about being bothered. Normally, you'd take a cab, but tonight you are exceptionally tired and you don't feel like standing on the sidewalk in the dark, praying that a cab will pass by so you can catch a ride.

Your job is located in one of the dodgier parts of the Narrows, a place where cab drivers (and people in general,) rarely venture, especially at night. The building you work in is old and weathered. You know the type, the one where the faded red break is decorated with dead vines that messily crawl up its sides and vertical bars cover the windows to keep out burglars. Oh, and the little bell above the door chimes annoyingly whenever someone walks in. It's a "real" nice place, really.

You're a financial analyst, probably one of the most boring jobs you could ever have in the history of jobs, but you secretly love it. You've always been good at math and playing around with numbers, and you enjoy helping people try to fight their way out of the drowning pool otherwise known as debt. It gives you a sense of fulfillment, helping others in a way that you know really matters to them and can make a big impact on their lives. Especially in times like these, too, a time when Gotham is on the brink of financial ruin and the economy seems to be trapped in this stagnant, perpetual slump. Of course, it doesn't help that all anyone seems to be obsessed with these days is money. It's amazing, you think, the things that some people will do for a little cash. People _die_ for a green slip of paper. Crazy, right?

You close your eyes and slump a little into the dark, navy blue leather seat, resting the side of your head against the window. Overhead, the florescent lights of the subway car are dimmed and occasionally flicker, but it's nothing out of the ordinary. There's gum stuck under the seats and fingerprints on the window, you're very used to it all.

Briefly glancing down at your watch, you expect you'll make it home in about thirty minutes, which leaves you just enough time for a small nap, seeing as how you're all alone.

That, however, immediately changes when the car begins to slow to a stop and the doors slide open. One lone passenger, a man, steps inside. He licks his lips and glances around, noticing you in the back and then uninterestedly turning away. He seats himself in the opposite section of seats near the back, facing you. You watch him furtively, your head still against the window, as he adjusts his jacket and then smoothes his wavy hair, which is a dark shade of blond and reaches just below his ears. He's dressed in a black suit, you notice, but that doesn't really strike you as odd because you figure he probably just got off work, same as you.

Equally uninterested, you close your eyes again, too tired to keep them open. You begin to think about what you'll do when you get home. First, you'll pay the babysitter, a little extra this time because you're usually not home this late and it's a school night for her. After she leaves, you'll check on Riley, your three year-old baby girl who is probably tucked away in her crib, sleeping soundly. After that, you'll take a quick shower, just long enough to relieve you of the day's stresses, before finally crawling into bed and turning off the lights.

Since tomorrow is Friday, you have to make sure you pay the electric bill and slip it in the mailbox before you drop Riley off at daycare and then head to work. And speaking of work, you have an important staff meeting tomorrow with the big man himself, so you'll have to dress extra nice.

As the subway car quietly hums along its tracks and the lights flicker from overhead, you mentally begin to pick out an acceptable outfit you can wear tomorrow, trying to picture all the dress clothes in your closet and which ones are at the dry-cleaners so you can figure out what to wear.

Suddenly, you are startled out of your thoughts when you hear someone clearing their throat. When you open your eyes, you see Mr. Wavy Blond Hair standing in the isle directly next to your seat, looking down at you.

Your first thought is initially, _wow, he's really tall,_ but then you remember that this is Gotham, crime city capital of the world, and instinctively you pull your purse a little closer to your side. You try to do it furtively, but he seems to notice and smiles a little, just barely, and with that small action you suddenly take notice of the fact that a Chelsea grin splits either of his cheeks. You didn't notice it when he was so far away, but up close you can see them more clearly, how one scar appears to be larger than the other and how _my God he's caught me staring._

You smile politely, if not a bit uneasily, and shift your eyes to meet his. "I'm sorry, can I help you with something?" Your voice is tired, and if Mr. Wavy Blond Hair is listening as closely as you hope he is, he may have heard the unmistakable _I'm not in the mood for small talk_ that is laced within your question.

Apparently, he does notice, because an apologetic look passes over his face and you suddenly feel bad for sounding like a jerk. "I didn't mean to interrupt your uh. . . na_p_," he says, his voice deep and husky and slightly nasally all at the same time, "but I've got a bit of a problem that I . . . was hoping you could help me with."

Your ears instantly perk up despite the fact that you're so tired. You're always willing to help someone in need, (a weird habit, you figure.) "Oh, of course." You sit up a little straighter and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, giving him your full attention. You're staring up at him with your big, round eyes, and he's staring back, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his dress pants and _is he smirking at me?_ You dismiss the thought when he starts to speak.

"See, you're just the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," he licks his lips and then drops his voice to nearly a growl as he leans in closer and grips the seat in front of you, "and I've just got. To. Have you."

Mr. Wavy Blond Hair isn't just tall anymore, he's _towering_, and he's still standing over your petite frame and making you feel tiny and vulnerable. You swallow and then laugh a bit nervously, completely at a loss for words. "Um, excuse me?" Your tone of voice conveys utter bewilderment, matching the expression on your face.

He only laughs in response, his pleased little rumble sending goose bumps over your arms as he so easily slithers closer and eases himself down next to you. You twist your body slightly so that your back is towards the window, and you press yourself into it as much as it will allow. You wish that you could somehow bust out of the confines of this subway car—or perhaps vanish into its walls and disappear, at least. Anything to make this very, very strange man go away.

Situations and scenarios similar to this have happened to you before. I mean, you're gorgeous, men hit on you all the time. It's a big city and there are a lot of guys in it, it's just the way things have always been—but never in your life has something quite like _this _happened before. This man isn't being playful or flirtatious like most guys you've encountered. This man is quick to the point, painfully blunt, and most of all, downright intimidating.

"Listen," he begins. He spreads his legs wide like men tend to do, his thigh casually grazing yours as he folds his hands in between his knees. He addresses you as if the two of you have known each other for years and are close friends simply catching up with one another. He isn't looking at you when he talks, and for that you are grateful. You don't want him to see how increasingly panicked he is making you.

You find his very presence strangely unnerving, so unnerving to the point where you feel your hands start to get clammy. You do your best to remain calm. You'll tell him to go away, tell him that you're tired and that you're not in the mood to talk. You'll even tell him that you're "sorry" to lighten the blow. And then you'll get off at the very next stop available, just to be safe.

His voice, though, jolts you out of your frantic thoughts. "I . . ." he swallows, staring down at his hands with an unreadable expression marring his features. "I think you're . . . beautiful. Really beautiful." He swallows again and glances at you from out of the corner of his eye before quickly averting his gaze. For most men, you would consider this behavior as a sign of nervousness, but he isn't nervous. He's fidgety and compulsive, random in his movements and appears antsy, as if he _just can't wait_. He opens his mouth to finish what he was trying to say, but you abruptly cut him off before he can continue. This is starting to really freak you out.

"I'm sorry," you say, hoping he didn't catch the slight quiver in your voice. He looks up at you with a sharp jerk of his head, and you're startled by the intensity of his gaze, the way his hard, dark brown orbs are smoldering you, practically pinning you to your seat.

You're staring into his eyes, completely lost in them, in fact, when you suddenly realize that the subway car is beginning to slow. You nearly jump for joy at this realization but manage to contain yourself. This isn't your stop but you're getting off now, regardless. "I—I really have to go. This is my stop." Your voice is all breathy and rushed, but you don't care. You just want to _get out _of this car, damn it.

You grab your purse and stand up in order to quickly slide past him. Mr. Wavy Blond Hair, however, seems to have other ideas, his arm coming up so fast you hardly even have time to register it. He leans forward and grabs the seat in front of the two of you, effectively blocking your way out. You see the veins pulsing in his hand from how tightly he is gripping the leather cushion of the seat, and your heart starts to flutter a little faster in the confines of your chest.

He's strong.

_Don't panic, remain calm,_ you think to yourself, letting out a slow breath.

The car comes to a full stop, and you know it's only going to remain that way for a few more seconds longer. "Please, sir," you hate how desperate your voice sounds, your nervousness clearly apparent, "I have to get off now." You won't meet his eyes because you don't want him to see how nervous you are, and he isn't meeting yours, either.

When he doesn't move at all and simply stares down at the floor, _why won't he look at me_? you start to panic just a little bit more. When you glance upwards to see the doors sliding closed, your panic suddenly blossoms inside your chest and you just barely hold back a cry of frustration. The car slowly starts forward again, and you're too stunned to do anything but try and contain the rapid beating of your heart.

"You ah," his voice is low, his eyes slowly rising to meet yours as he stares at you from beneath his brows. "You don't quite seem to . . . _understand _the gravi_t_y of the _situation_." As he removes his arm from the seat and turns to look at you, you can't help but feel smoldered by his gaze again, and you try to put some distance between the two of you, pressing your back into the window as nonchalantly as possible. You're fully facing him now, but at least you can better anticipate his next move, should he try to make any.

"You see, when I want something," he eyes you significantly, "I _get _it." As he pulls back to assess your reaction, you can only stare at him with your brows knitted together in panic. "You feel me?"

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **__I realize that this isn't the most original plotline, but once the idea for it came to me, I had to write it down immediately. I finished it in about two hours and have only read over it once or twice, but I hope that my writing is up to par and that any grammatical mistakes or otherwise were kept at a minimum. All comments, constructive or otherwise, are always welcomed._

_This story is obviously __**pre-Dark Knight**__ and takes place before the Joker actually _becomes_ the Joker. I'm running this particular portrayal of "Jack" on the theory that he really is insane, which is just another thing to keep in mind. This doesn't, though, take away from the fact that he is (or, will become,) a criminal, mastermind genius. If anything, his insanity only adds to that. _


	2. Chapter 2

"_You see, when I want something . . ." he eyes you significantly, "I _get_ it." As he pulls back a little to assess your reaction, you can only stare at him with your brows knitted together in panic. "You feel me?" _

You swallow and meet Mr. Wavy Blond Hair's eyes, pressing your back even further into the window while still trying not to appear overly nervous or weak. You do _not _want him to know just how much he is freaking you out.

"That's . . . nice," you manage to stutter, tripping over your own tongue, which happens to feel like lead, "but you see I'm . . . seeing somebody else," _lie_, "so I'm afraid I . . . can't." You finish your little speech, clenching and unclenching your hands in your lap and practically holding your breath as you wait for his response. You expect to see his face fall a little bit, expect him to look a little crestfallen over the fact that you've just told him that you're "not on the market," but instead, he simply tilts his head at you and smiles.

"Oh _sweetheart_." His voice is nasally all the sudden, and his macabre grin stretches his cheeks, pulling his fleshy scars taut as he slides closer to you. "You're so . . . amusing." His dark eyes are dancing with mirth while some kind of insatiable fire secretly blazes behind them. "We both know that isn't true, now, is it?" He isn't smiling anymore as he looks at you from underneath his brows and then shakes his head knowingly, as if he _really knows_ that it isn't. "You don't have to lie to me." He licks his lips and somehow manages to slide even closer to you, his thigh once again gazing your own, like he doesn't even seem to notice. _Does he have no concept of the words 'personal space'? _

The lights flicker from overhead as the two of you simply stare at each other, the sound of the subway gliding against the iron rails and filling the otherwise aberrant silence. In this critical moment where he's just called your bluff, you don't know what to do. You're hesitant to move past him again, but only because you fear he's going to try to stop you like he did the last time, and you don't want to fight him.

_Oh, God,_ you think, would he actually fight you if you tried to get away? The thought is terrifyingly thrilling—and you mean thrilling in the very, very bad sense of the word. You _do not_ want to fight him. You just want to get home ASAP.

Slowly, his right arm comes up to casually rest on the back of the seat you two are sitting on, and then his hand is reaching out. "I just want to . . . ."

Whatever he had planned on saying dies on his lips, and instead, his fingers are grazing the tips of your hair, and you wonder if his fingers have nerve-endings, because you suddenly jump back as if he's just shocked you, something akin to a jolt of electricity shooting through your veins.

He laughs at your uneasiness, so genuinely amused by how frightened you are that it makes you sick to your stomach. _How can someone take such genuine pleasure in another person's discomfort?_ You suddenly don't care about how desperate you are, don't care if he can see how terrified he's made you. This has gotten beyond the point of creepy.

With no other option, you decide that it's time to make a run for it. You feel like if you can just get past him that he'll give up and let you go. The next stop should be soon anyway, so you can bolt out the doors as soon as they open. _You can do it, you can do it._

You meet his eyes as you go to quickly lift yourself out of the seat, but that is your first mistake.

He glares at you dangerously, just _daring _you to get up and make a move.

You don't.

After seeing him look at you like _that, _there's no way he's going to let you go anyway. His eyes scream whispered promises of murder and death, and the look is so terrifying that it roots you to your seat.

When he's certain that you aren't going to try and get away, he turns his body so he's facing forward again. "We're going to have so much fun," he whispers in a distracted manner, half taking to you, and half talking to himself. You can see his cheek bulge where he is running his tongue along the inside of his scars, and for whatever reason, the image makes you shudder.

His knee starts to bounce anxiously as he stares straight ahead, waiting for the subway car to make its next stop.

These few seconds you have where he's not paying you any attention, you realize that you need to_ do_ something. You wonder if you can discreetly slip your hand inside your purse and dial 911 on your cell phone. But . . . then what? You obviously can't say anything, else he'll hear you. Can you send a text to 911? What would you possibly say? _I'm being held against my will by a crazy man in a subway train. Please save me_.

Yeah, that sounds real believable.

Or maybe you can make a run for it? The very second that the doors open, you can jump over the seat in front of you, land in the isle, and then make a dash for the doors and run like a madwoman until he's far away and out of sight.

But this, you think, will never work. He's too quick, and you're not that agile.

For the duration of the rest of the ride, the two of you sit in an uncomfortable silence, thick with panic and tension and all those other emotions you can't seem to make go away.

When the rails beneath the train squeal as they begin to slow, you grip your purse tighter, completely forgetting about your idea to not make a run for it. You're _going_ to do it.

Or, at least, you _were_ going to, that is until Mr. Wavy Blond Hair reaches over and tenderly grabs your hand, his grasp deceptively soft. You let out a shallow breath as his rough, hot hands enclose over your own and he pulls it into his lap, drawing you closer. "This is how we're going to do this, beautiful." He licks his lips, (must be habit,) and finally locks eyes with you, staring you down. You're drowning in those black, fathomless pools of acid, and, as a last desperate attempt to save yourself, you quickly look away. "No, no," he instantly chides. "Pay _attention_." He seems to know the effect his gaze is having on you, and he squeezes your hand painfully hard, his short, jagged nails digging into your skin. You cringe at the pain and then reluctantly raise your eyes to meet his. "We can do this the easy way . . . or we can do this the hard way." He leans in closer, the leather seat squeaking with the movement, and then growls in your ear. "And you _don't_ want to do this the hard way."

You give a startled jump when you feel something sharp poking into your ribs, and you don't even have to look down to know what it is.

This man is even crazier than you thought.

The car finally comes to a complete stop and Mr. Wavy Blond Hair stands, hauling you up along with him as you clutch your purse to your side. He briefly lets go of your hand, and you're relieved until you feel him sling his arm around your shoulders and it rests there like a deadweight. He pulls you close to his side, too close. "Isn't this . . . _nice_?" The word slithers off his tongue like he's some kind of serpent, and, as crazy as this night has turned out to be this far, it honestly wouldn't surprise you if he were.

The two of you shuffle towards the doors and all too soon you're stepping onto the platform and then the concrete floor of the subway station, the bright florescent lights above momentarily blinding you.

And that's when the panic _really_ kicks in.

Where is he going to take you?

What is he going to _do _to you?

_Oh, God._ You swallow uncomfortably, unable to even bear the last thought.

You want to scream, you want to cry, and most of all, you want to pull away and call for help. Your eyes quickly scan the station, searching for a means of escape. When you find none, a small, half cry, half whimper, both of which sound absolutely pathetic to your own ears, escapes from the back of your throat.

Mr. Wavy Blond Hair immediately tugs you closer, his arm still slung around your shoulder, and growls threateningly into your ear, telling you to _shut the fuck up _as he mockingly pets your hair.

To anyone watching the current exchange, they might assume that a husband is simply comforting his upset wife, whispering soothing words into her ear as he lovingly runs his fingers through her hair.

_How wrong they would be_, you think.

Quickly, he steers you out of the station and back into the night. It must be eleven o'clock by now, you figure absently. The sky is a deep, midnight blue, and it seems that not even the stars are brave enough to shine on the dirty city Gotham. Not tonight.

Your eyes search the street for somebody—_anybody_—who may be able to help you. A strong man, a cab driver parked on the side of the street waiting for a customer, a passing car, a _police officer_. Yes, the latter option would definitely be nice.

However, much to your growing panic, you realize that the streets are almost completely empty. You see someone duck into an alleyway farther on up ahead, and then another person, an older woman, closing her blinds in the window in the building across the street. A car alarm going off somewhere in the distance meets your ears, which is immediately followed by a male voice yelling a string of colorful curses and profanities and someone yelling back.

Despite the humid summer night air that is sticky with heat, you can't help the shiver scuttles down your spine, and the action does not escape Mr. Wavy Blonde Hair's notice. He pulls you closer, as if that will somehow comfort you. If anything, it only makes your heart beat faster. You can_ smell_ him now, and he smells clean, like ivory soap and some other cologne-y scent that you can't place.

You're trying to walk as slowly as possible, trying to delay the inevitable, obviously, but he keeps pulling you along, urging you forward.

Finally, you can't take it anymore. You have to _do _something, damn it. You won't just walk along with him and let him drag you into whatever little hell it is that he has planned for you.

Before you can fully think this through, you're suddenly twisting out of his embrace, something you initially thought would be a lot easier to do, and you're still writhing furiously as he tries to maintain his hold on you. You're shouting, too, calling for help at the top of your lungs, but all your screams fall on deaf ears when he smothers a hand over your mouth, your cries for help dying into his palm.

At this newfound realization that you _can't get away_, tears start to brim in your eyes, but you stubbornly hold them back. You can't let him know how much he is getting under your skin. You have to remain strong, if not for your sake, then at least for Riley's. She _needs _you. She can't grow up without a mother, she just can't. She's already lost one parent and you can't let her lose another one, too.

In the scuffle that ensued after your escape, you realize that he's pulled you into an alley where the two of you are shadowed by darkness and the two tall buildings that loom on either side of you.

His hand is still over your mouth, making it difficult to even breathe. He pushes you into the wall, your shirt riding up and making the concrete bricks scrape against your back. You cry pathetically as he grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs on it in time with his emphasized words. "_Why _do you keep trying to run _away _from me?" he snarls. You can't see his face in the darkness, but you can certainly hear his growl, and now you_ know_ that you've made him angry, and he tells you as much. "You're really ah, really pissing me _off_." He emphasizes the word strangely, but it must've had the desired effect because it makes you tremble in fear despite your will to remain strong.

But then, quite abruptly, his mood seems to shift as he eyes something further on down the alley. He smirks as he looks down at you, removing his hand from your mouth and cupping your face in quivering, excited hands.

"Oh," he giggles breathlessly. "We're _here_."


	3. Chapter 3

_He smirks as he looks down at you, removing his hand from your mouth and cupping your face in quivering, excited hands. _

"_Oh," he giggles breathlessly. "We're _here_." _

Your brows furrow as you turn your head to the side, mostly in an attempt to get his hands off your face, (you do _not_ want him touching you,) but also to see where exactly "here" is.

All too quickly though, his hand moves to painfully grip the tender skin at the back of your neck, his nails (which feel like claws) digging into your skin. His low, throaty growl makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. "Move it, sweetheart."

You've only just noticed it now, but these little names of endearment he's been calling you all evening, (sweetheart, beautiful, doll face,) are really starting to get on your nerves. It might have been cute, (had he been any other man,) and had his tone not been carrying that almost ever-present condescending lilt, as if his words are meant to constantly mock you.

Just who does this guy think he is?

He's confident to be sure, but doesn't really come off as cocky. His self-assuredness, however, is something you find almost frightening. He seems . . . fearless. As if he can do anything and everything and_ know _that he'll get away with it. And really, who's going to stop him? The two of you are alone in some back alleyway and it's almost midnight. No one's going to save you and he knows that. He acts as if he's got the whole world in his palm to do with as he pleases. Gotham is his little playground to fuck around with, and, with this thought in mind, you immediately begin to wonder how many crimes like this he's committed before, or if maybe this is his first.

Mr. Wavy Blond Hair is dragging you down the alley at a brisk pace and you stumble to keep up. You're not wearing heels today, and for that you are immensely grateful. You have Riley to thank for that, ironically enough, because she has this cute little habit where she begs you to let her pick out your clothes for work in the morning. She's a little budding fashionista in the making, and she loves digging through your closet, searching for the perfect pair of pumps to match with your usual black pencil skirt and whatever-color-she-chooses-for-you-that-day blouse. This morning, though, she picked out for you a work-appropriate, closed-toed sandal with thin straps around the ankle. It's because of this that you're able to keep pace with Mr. Wavy Blond Hair's long-legged strides—and in the dark, too. You hope to God that whatever wet stuff that you just stepped in was just a puddle of water and not something . . . else. You hold back a groan at the thought.

"Here" is a place that seems to be a lot farther away than you originally expected because he drags you out of the alley, through the empty parking lot of some old, dilapidated restaurant, and then, finally, after a few blocks later, through a dark neighborhood where tall apartment buildings are tightly pressed against each other and loom over either side of the narrow, one-way street. It's utterly and completely dark, the apartment buildings blocking out any light from the midnight sky, and you begin to wonder exactly what part of the Narrows you're in. You wouldn't be surprised if this place wasn't even on the map.

You can just barely make out the road ahead and you squint your eyes to see better. Through the darkness, you happen to notice that the road abruptly cuts off into a dead end in which there is a woods thick and full of tangled green vines and dead trees. This is such an odd part of the Narrows, you think, a place you surely have never been to before. You wonder what it looks like when it's actually shrouded in light.

Mr. Wavy Blond Hair mumbles something to you, and you don't realize that he's said "watch your step," until you've actually stumbled over them. Fortunately, you catch yourself on your palms before your face can take the impact, but _un_fortunately, both knees are still scraped and sting something horrible. A pained noise escapes from the back of your throat, but Mr. Wavy Blond Hair ignores it and grabs your upper arm, hauling you to your feet none-too-gently.

The two of you finish your ascent up the stairs, and you suddenly hear the jingle of keys as he inserts them into the door in front of you. He then pulls you inside, finally letting go of you, and silently shuts the door.

If you thought outside was dark, well then in here, its pitch black. It's blacker than staring at the back of your eyelids, in fact, (you just closed your eyes, didn't you?) and that is a very, very scary thing. This is the first thing you notice.

The second thing you notice is that the room is stifling hot, and you wonder if the place he has taken you to is some kind of sauna or something. Beads of sweat run down your spine and down your chest, trickling uncomfortably down in between your breasts.

"Where are we?" you manage to whisper. You give a startled little jump when you feel his hot, humid breath wafting right in your ear. He's behind you and his fingertips are just _barely _gazing the curve of your lower back.

"My pla_ce_," he says lowly, almost seductively, you think. You feel him ease your purse out of your hands and then hear the thud it makes as he lets it carelessly drop to the floor. There goes your chance of trying to dial 911. "You ah, you_ like_ it?"

"I can't _see_ it," you respond shortly, surprised at the annoyance in your voice. You really need to keep that in check.

You hear the wet slide of his tongue against his lips, so close to your ear that it makes you cringe. "Got a little sense of humor, do ya?"

You can't tell if he's amused or angry, but you immediately assume that it's the latter. "I'm sorry," you quickly apologize. _Damn it_, you can't do that again. This man has already threatened you with a knife and he could _kill _you. _Don't say anything stupid._

You picture him rolling his eyes at your feeble attempt at an apology, but you're not quite sure because it's so unnaturally dark. As he grabs your upper arm again, you almost have the urge to pull away and make a run for the door. Thankfully, though, you're not that stupid.

You're walking over carpet and then on tiled floor, and, before you know it, he's forcing you down into a wooden chair with an uncomfortable back. You search for any sort of light, the dark blue sky pouring in through a window or the light from a streetlamp, maybe, but you find nothing. It's as dark as hell and you hate it.

The lack of light, however, is suddenly the last thing you find yourself thinking about, and with growing horror you suddenly feel something being tugged around your wrists, and you realize that he's trying to tie you to the chair. You immediately gasp aloud and start to struggle, but you can already feel with a sense of foreboding that your efforts are futile. You hear him snarl at you and then capture both of your wrists together in one easy swipe, bringing them around the back of the chair and quickly securing them with a zip tie. He might as well have used handcuffs, you think, because they are just as impossible to break out of as zip ties are. They may be made out of plastic, but there is no way that those are going to come off your wrists without a knife or pair of scissors. And if that's not enough, he takes another set of zip ties and loops them through the ones that are already adorning your wrists, attaching that to one of the legs on the back of the chair. This action makes pain shoot up your back and arms. The way your wrists are tied forces you to lean back into the chair as far as possible so that you can alleviate the pressure on your wrists. If you don't, they'll snap. Your bottom isn't even touching the seat of the chair, and the uncomfortable position makes you want to cry out in angry frustration.

Up until this point, everything has felt rather surreal for you. Never had you imagined that this was how your day would go, and even now, when you're strapped to this chair, you _still _can't comprehend all that has happened in such a short amount of time.

But that's about to change.

It's when you hear him kneel in front of you and place his hands on either side of the chair that you realize that you're completely _alone_ with this psycho, in _his_ house, and tied to a chair. _And _he has a knife, a lot of them, probably, especially if he's the kind of man you are beginning to think he is.

Terrible thoughts begin to paint themselves in the canvas of your mind, horrifying little mental caricatures that you tried to stave off when you first entered this building with him but now seem inevitable.

Is he going to rape you? Will he cut you into little pieces and dump your leftovers in the trash? Is he going to beat you to death? Knock you unconscious and then fuck you for all that you're worth only to then awaken to find yourself lying in a pool of your own blood?

A violent shiver wracks your body at these thoughts and you suddenly want to cry. You want to cry harder and more passionately than you've ever cried in your whole life. Stuff like this is _not_ supposed to happen. Not to people like _you_.

Mr. Wavy Blond Hair seems to sense your despair and he pulls out his little sympathy card again, sounding so utterly heartbroken over your predicament that you almost begin to think that he really is.

"There there," he soothes, gently running a hand through your hair, "I'm going to make this _all _better."

He sighs breathily then, and, if it hadn't of been so dark, you would have seen his pleased, crooked grin.

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **__I love the idea of pre-Joker being this insane, completely unstable man who attaches himself to any person, idea, or thing that catches his immediate interest. Jack knows what he likes, so when he finds it, he becomes obsessed with it to the point where he just can't control himself anymore. I like to believe that this theory applies to just about anything. An idea, a certain object, a person, (Batman, for example), or, in this case, "you."_

_On that note, thank you for all the amazing reviews. This is the most fun I've ever had writing a story. I want to offer a special thanks (since I can't send a private message,) to the anonymous reviewer 'Something-Or-Other'. I was blown away by your review and wanted so badly to respond to it. (You should really get an account, hinthint. ;) Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to you. Hope you liked it._


	4. Chapter 4

"_There there," he soothes, gently running a hand through your hair, "I'm going to make this all better." _

_He sighs breathily then, and, if it hadn't of been so dark, you would have seen his pleased, crooked grin. _

He's just there, kneeling in front of you with his hands on either side of the chair, and you feel awkward because your hips are slightly twisted and arched at such an angle that you know would look suggestive if not for the painful expression that mars your features.

After a few seconds of silence, save for your erratic and uneven pants of breath, you feel his presence momentarily disappear, and you take a moment to gulp in some much needed air, relax your muscles, and find a more comfortable position, which is apparently impossible.

You can hear his shoes moving against the tiled floor, and you wonder where he is going when a dim, muted yellow light is suddenly flipped on. You drink in the light eagerly with your starving eyes, your gaze sweeping over the room and searching it quickly.

You're in a kitchen, you realize, and it's a very plain one at that. The counter is shaped like a sideways 'L', and the only thing sitting on top of it is a toaster, a microwave, and a breadbox. The cupboards and drawers are painted cream white and the countertop is a light, egg-shell blue. The square kitchen table is an oak color as are the matching chairs. Overall the room looks quite normal, like any other small kitchen you'd find in an apartment this size. Everything is tidy and immaculate, with not a stain or flaw in sight. So why, then, is it so damn _creepy_?

You try to inspect more of the place, try to crane your neck to the side so you can see into the adjoining room, but the light that Mr. Wavy Blond Hair has turned on is barely enough to illuminate _this_ room, let alone the adjacent one.

You've just gotten your heartbeat to slow to a somewhat relatively normal pace when something on the countertop catches your eye, something metallic.

And there, naught but several feet away, is a row of long, sharp-looking knives aligned on the counter, all of them meticulously placed and deliberately arranged from smallest to largest.

Seeing this makes terror and fury rip through your chest, and you suddenly cry out angrily and with desperation, your eyes watering with tears. "Why are you doing this, you fucking bastard!" You clench your teeth and writhe feverishly in your restraints, giving him what you hope is your most intimidating glare. You're so frustrated that you can't _do _anything and it makes your cheeks burn red with anger.

A look so close to genuine sympathy passes over his face then, and he looks so utterly sincere that it makes you come undone, tears finally spilling over your lashes and running down your cheeks.

When he notices your despair, he slowly walks back over and kneels down in front of you, his hands gripping either side of the chair. "Aw, sh sh sh, don't cry, baby." He sounds sad as he frowns and reaches out a hand to gently cup your cheek, wiping away the tears. His eyes are a soft, soothing shade of brown, and he looks so heartbroken in this moment, so completely and absolutely sorry for you that you begin to think that he really is. He's really good at that.

"Why?" you sob. "Why are you doing this to me?"

He furrows his brows and shifts closer to you, briefly licking his lips. "Because I _like_ you, doll face, why else?"

The confession might have been endearing . . . had it not just been uttered from the lips of a monster.

"But I don't even know you!"

"Sure you do!" he responds enthusiastically. He reaches out a hand to shake yours but then stops himself, giggling. "Oh, you're a little tied u_p_, aren't ya?" He grins as if he's just made a funny joke and then drops his hand to grip the seat of the chair again. "I'm _Jack_," he introduces himself, raising his brows and meeting your eyes to make sure that you understand. "And you. Are. _Gorgeous_." His voice lowers on the last part and he pauses, his eyes sensually dropping to your lips before lifting to meet your eyes again. "See, now we're _alllll _acquainted. Feel better now?"

"But I don't _know _you," you insist, more frustrated tears trailing down your cheeks.

"But_ I_ know _you_," he whispers, his voice suddenly fervent. "I see you all the time. You're here, you're there . . . you're in my _thoughts _. . . . I can't get you out of my head!" His voice rises to a crescendo at the end and he giggles like a madman.

He _is_ a madman.

"I don't understand . . . ."

He shifts closer and your eyes widen when he has the audacity to grip you by your thighs, tugging you lower to the seat so that you cry out as your wrists are bent into an excruciatingly painful position behind your back.

"I see you every day," he whispers, leaning in so close that his chest is pressed up against your legs. "I've been . . . watching you. For a while now."

At this newfound realization, your eyes widen significantly and your heartbeat goes double time. "You've _. . . _you've been _stalking_ me?" You can hardly believe it even as the words leave your mouth, and you're in so much shock that you vision starts to blur.

His eyes narrow at the accusation. He apparently doesn't like what you've said and the tone you've said it in, but he quickly continues on as if you hadn't even asked him a question at all. "I see you drop little Riley off at daycare in the morning and then I see you go to work. You don't like how the big man in the cubicle across from yours looks at you so lustfully all the time, practically . . . _undressing_ you with his eyes." Mr. Wavy Blond—_Jack_, tongues at his scars as he looks at your body in an imitation of what he just described. "And then you leave work, pick up the little tyke from daycare on the days when you can't get a babysitter, and then you go home. You cook dinner, and oh, it smells _good_. Friday's are the best. You make the most fantasti_c _pasta around here, honestly." He shakes his head vigorously to affirm his statement. "After dinner, you give the little one a bath and read her a bedtime story, like any good, single mommy should do, and then _you _go take a bath and . . . ." Jack trails off then, his eyes darkening and gradually losing that warm softness you had seen only minutes before. "Then you go to bed," he continues, swallowing hard, "and you're so cute when you sleep. You make these little noises . . ." he trails off again, "and I love them. But sometimes you have bad dreams. Sometimes you scream in your sleep, and then you wake up crying and I—I just want to _hold_ you and make you happy again." His voice is high and deep at the same time, and the contradiction of it is driving you crazy, as are his words.

As all this sinks in, all this information about your personal life that he knows, _God,_ all this information that he _knows so well_, you're more terrified than you thought you could ever be. This man, this crazy, crazy man who has a fetish for knives has been _stalking_ you. He's been following you, he knows your schedule, and he may have even been inside your _house_. That thought terrifies you the most above all, because if he's been in your house you immediately begin to wonder all the things he's touched in there, all the things he's _seen_.

The invasion of privacy appalls you, and you're disgusted by this man, but mostly terrified, because you had no fucking clue that this was even happening.

Your head is spinning and you feel dizzy. You can't even fathom how he knows so much about you. He knows about the guy at work, he knows that you make pasta for dinner every Friday night, and he knows your daughter's name. How is all this even possible?

Tears well in your eyes, more fervently than before, and your body is shuddering with fear and pain, the strain in your wrists nearly too much to bear. It's not even close to matching the pain in your head, though. Your brain is reeling from all this information and you're too many emotions to be described at once.

"You freak," you manage to whisper, your voice clearly portraying how disgusted you are by all this information.

Upon hearing this, he works his mouth, and you know that he is _clearly _agitated now, his nails digging into the skin of your thighs, painful even through the material of your knee-length skirt. He narrows his eyes at the insult and growls. "_That_ wasn't very _nice_."

You're not quite sure how to respond, because you're teetering on the edge of firing a sassy comeback even though you know you shouldn't. You're still angry though, furious, really, and you arch upwards, trying to relieve the pain on your wrists but also frustrated and wanting more than anything to just be released from the chair. "Let me out of here!" you suddenly shout, writhing in your chair and fighting your restraints. You get yourself all worked up into a frenzy, your hair clinging to your sweaty face and the room still uncomfortably humid and sticky hot.

You feel his eyes on you the whole time you're twisting at your restraints, and when you finally calm down your face is flushed and your body feels limp. You weakly slump back into your uncomfortable, half-arched position and meet Jack's eyes, looking defeated.

"You ah, you done yet?"

"Let me go," you beg, "I'll do anything you want. Please just let me go home. I—I can't do this. Not right now. _Please_." You feel more tears prick your eyes again and you pathetically think, _why me_? You're the most boring person to ever exist on the planet. Your life is exactly as he described it. It's the same old thing day in and day out. You work, you take care of your baby, and then you go to sleep only to wake up and repeat the cycle all over again. Of all the people for him to stalk in the city of Gotham, you are certainly the most boring, you're sure of it. "Please," you quietly gasp, your voice pleading. This is your last chance, you fear, your last chance to rationalize with him before he does something you really don't want him to do. "_Please _let me go."

Much to your dismay, he ignores your plea, reaching up a hand to touch your hair instead, delicately running his fingers through the strands that have fallen loose from its ponytail. "You're so . . . fascinating," he whispers. He sounds completely enraptured with you, as if you're some kind of exotic jewel that is just so fantastically breathtaking that he can't possibly look away. In the semi-darkness of the room, you feel his toxic eyes penetrating yours and you know he's staring at you, hard. After a moment, you hear a giggle bubbling from within the confines of his throat. Suddenly, his shoulders are shaking with laughter, his insane, loud, and obnoxious cackle invading your ears. He growls through his laughter and smiles. "Why would I let you _go_?"

After hearing these words, you finally realize that you're past the point of trying to maintain any dignity you may have formerly possessed. "I'll do anything you want, please, just let me go!"

Jack stares at you with his eyes narrowed, seemingly contemplating your more than generous offer. "Anything _I _want, hm?" You nod your head quickly in response, and an awful grin splits his face. You try your hardest not to cringe at the sight. "Well," he begins dramatically, _"I_ want you to sit right where you are and look pretty. Think you can do that for me?"

"Why?" You feel absolutely pathetic and already drained of energy, and you hate the way your voice is cracking.

He seems glad that you asked, because his face becomes alight with excitement as he leans in closer. "Because I have a surprise for you," he whispers, and you can't help but hate the way his black eyes are gleaming (like knives) in the shadowy darkness. "But," he interjects, straightening from his crouching position in front of you and then smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit as he eyes you over, "you have to close your eyes."

His request hits you with all the impact of a freight train. "_What_?"

"I said _close your eyes_," he repeats impatiently. He swallows and leans forwards. "Or I'll carve them out of their _sockets_."

His grisly warning hangs in the air ominously, and you don't doubt his words because you've seen his knives all so perfectly aligned on the kitchen counter. Even though your instincts are raging against you and you know that this probably isn't a good idea, you close your eyes, if only for the sake of saving them.

"No peek-ing," he giggles.

Numbly, you nod your head. When he seems satisfied, you hear him shuffle away. You can tell he's still in the room, and you hear what sounds like the refrigerator door being opened, and then there is movement, lots of it, and you don't hear the door close again until nearly five, painstaking minutes later. You didn't dare open your eyes throughout the ordeal, and now you're so nervous that you're literally shaking in your seat.

The sound of metal clanking sharply together meets your ears, and your mind immediately begins to think of all the awful things he could be doing right now. You suspect that he's putting together some kind of awful torture device, snapping all of its metal pieces into place, bit by bit. And as for the refrigerator, he probably opened it to pull out a slab of meat or something so he can show you how this torture contraption works. It will be bloody and it will be painful, and as much as you want to open your eyes to see if your suspicions are correct, you also _don't_ want to open your eyes because you want to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

You've been trying to do that all night though, and it's clearly not working.

After what seems like a century of silence, you hear the unmistakable sound of a match being struck against the side of the box.

_Oh, shit. _

You can just imagine him lighting a candle or something and then holding a strip of metal over it, heating it up until its red-hot.

What if he plans to _brand_ you?

_No, no, that's crazy, don't even think that_. He may be a stalker and everything but he can't be_ that_ obsessed. You quickly decide that you've seen way too many horror movies and you try to imagine that he's doing something else instead.

You struggle to swallow down the panic that is building inside you, but it keeps clawing up your throat. It's like throw-up that you can't spit it out, and its awful taste is flooding your mouth and coating your tongue. Panic tastes metallic and coppery, like blood, and you find this realization terrifying until you suddenly realize that you've been biting down on your lip with so much force that you've made it bleed.

Blindly, you tongue at the blood that has gathered on your bottom lip. You quickly try to lap it into your mouth because for some reason, you don't want him to see it. You know it's a silly notion, but you're kind of afraid that if he sees your blood he'll go crazy or something, kind of like how that one shark did in _Finding Nemo_. You only think of this because you had just watched that movie the other night with Riley.

Thoughts of your three year-old daughter make you slump in your chair. You miss her so much, more so than you ever thought possible. You wonder if the babysitter has started to get worried yet, because you've been gone for nearly an hour and a half longer than you said you would be. She's probably tried to call your cell phone, but you wouldn't know because it's in the room where Jack left it and is on vibrate.

You're still tonguing at your bottom lip when you feel his presence looming in front of you. "Oh, sweetheart, look what you've done." His voice is strangely soft and full of concern, and your eyes instinctively flutter open even though he hasn't told you to open them yet. He's leaning directly over you, your body still half-arched in that painful, awkward position as he glides his thumb over your bottom lip and wipes away the blood. "There." He smears the little bit of blood on his suit, obviously not caring if it gets stained, and then meets your eyes.

You immediately squeeze them shut as if you hadn't ever opened them, which is a foolish thing to do, really, because you _know _he saw you watching him as he cleaned the blood from your lip. You pray that he won't blow his lid and get mad at you for opening your eyes before he said you could, and thankfully, he doesn't.

Instead, he chuckles and you hear him step behind you, his warm, heavy hands weighing down on your shoulders. "You can open them now," he breathes into your ear, making you shudder.

Slowly, your lashes begin to flutter open, and when they do, you gasp aloud, shocked by what you see.


	5. Chapter 5

_Instead, he chuckles and you hear him step behind you, his warm, heavy hands weighing down on your shoulders. "Open," he breathes into your ear, making you shudder. _

_Slowly, your lashes begin to flutter open, and when they do, you gasp aloud, shocked by what you see._

Laid out on the table before you is a _feast_.

There's Italian bread, there's salad with freshly-chopped fruit, there's expertly sliced pieces of steak, there's pasta Alfredo, and then, finally, there's red wine, shining like freshly-spilt blood through the glass.

What_ is_ this?

It takes a moment for the scene to register and for you to realize what exactly is going on. This stalker—this _madman_—he's literally created a candlelit dinner for the two of you to dine over. _That's why he's wearing a suit_, you realize. Everything clicks into place.

You're not sure whether to feel relieved or horrified. You suppose you feel a little bit of both. Relived, because this is so much better than what your imagination had conjured, and horrified because you're realizing how completely off his _rocker_ this man really is. He's been stalking you for God-knows-how-long, dragged you against your will to his home and tied you to a chair in his kitchen . . . all so the two of you can preside over dinner together? Is this some kind of sick _joke_?

By the look of utter bewilderment on your face, Jack seems almost embarrassed, as if you had been expecting so much more, and you had been, really, just not in the way he was thinking.

"I uh, I know it's a little much," he starts, _and isn't that the understatement of the year,_ "but I . . . I've been planning this for a long time." He smiles at you then, and it's this creepy, off-kilter smile that hides hidden intentions, like he's trying to lull you into a false sense of security. Like a coiled snake, he's just waiting for the right moment to strike.

The 'right moment,' you fear, is coming soon.

Now he's standing behind you as he scoots your chair forward, the wood making an awful scraping noise against the tile, until you're placed directly in front of the table. Momentarily, he facades as the perfect gentlemen, scooting your chair forward and then unfolding the linen napkin on the table and setting it in your lap. His fingers gently but purposely brush against your thighs in the process, and afterwards he grins and winks exaggeratedly.

"Oops." His breath falls heavy against your neck, and, swallowing, you force yourself to turn away, instead gazing out over all the food in astonishment. You won't admit it aloud, but the meal looks absolutely mouth-watering. Did he cook it all himself or did he hire a caterer of some sort? Regardless, you come to realize that you haven't eaten since lunch and you're starving. The fact, though, that this very well might be your last meal makes your appetite vanish almost entirely. You're too sick to your stomach to even _think_ about eating, let alone actually doing it.

Without warning, the pressure around your wrists suddenly disappears, and you immediately slump into the chair, finally able to fully sit down on it with your arms no longer behind you. You pull them into your lap and rub your wrists, wincing.

When he steps beside you, you look up with a questioning gaze. "We ah, we can't ea_t _if you're all tied up now, can we?" You swallow and shake your head no, agreeing with his statement. "Now," he licks his lips, hungry, but not for food, "you're going to sit right here and be a _good girl_." The words slip of his tongue so mockingly you want to punch him. He's still standing by your side when he dips down to brush his lips against your ear. "_Dig in_."

Jack finally moves into your field of vision, and you catch him smirking as he rounds the table and slowly seats himself in the chair across from yours. His actions are stiff but his eyes are alert, as if he's just waiting for that moment when you'll try to get up and run and he'll chase you and catch you and then do God-knows-what. You shudder at the thought and look off to the side, still rubbing your wrists.

_Okay, where's the nearest exit? _

Your eyes scan the room and happen to fall on the small window above the sink. The curtains are drawn, but those can be easily pushed aside. Question is, can you actually fit through the window? You're not too sure, but one thing you _do _know is that you're not just going to just sit there contemplating the matter. You need to take action.

You just have to wait for the 'right moment.'

Jack hasn't moved an inch since he sat down, and you know his eyes have been on you the whole time. Hesitantly, your own eyes travel across the length of the table until you reach his gaze.

"Eat." His expression is blank, but the warning in his command is more than crystal clear.

Swallowing, you look down at the clear glass plate in front of you. It glimmers almost hypnotically in the candlelight. You stare at it in thought.

_What if the food's poisoned? Would he actually _do_ that? _

"I—I'm not very hungry," you manage, tearing your eyes from the plate to meet his own.

You're only met with silence and the steely gaze of his acidic black eyes.

"Ex-_cuse _me?"

Oh, God. That was _not_ the right thing to say.

"I'm sorry—I . . . it's just that I ate not too long ago," _lie_ . . . again, "and my stomach it—it really hurts."

When you're met with a considerably long pause of silence, you blink rapidly, dazedly, wondering what he'll do next. After a few, heart-pounding moments, his concentration finally breaks and his gaze wanders around the room. He looks bored. "_You're_ not a very good _liar_." He shakes his head, disappointed. "I've been '_stalking_' you, remember?" He smirks a little and stares at you from beneath his brows. "I _know _when you last ate."

You have nothing to say to that last comment, because you knows it's all but too true. To placate him, you take a small sip of wine from the glass in front of you and close your eyes, letting the liquid wet your dry, tight throat. You swallow a bit uncomfortably—the drink was a lot stronger than you initially thought—and shakily set it back down on the table.

Your stomach is a roller coaster of emotions. One minute you're terrified with panic as he straps you to a chair, and the next minute your stomach is twisting in nervous knots of anxiousness during a relative moment of calm, just sitting and waiting with dread for whatever he plans on doing next. God, this is the sort of stuff you find in poorly-written horror novels and cheap, straight-to-DVD movies, not real life.

As he continues to stare at you, his mouth pulled into a thin, straight line, you begin to feel even sicker than before and you have the sudden urge to throw up. You can't just sit there and not do anything, though, that would only make him angrier. And with this in mind, you slowly pick up the shiny, silver fork next to your plate and then let your eyes sweep over the expanse of the table, taking in all the food.

_Too much. It's all too much._

You can't do this. You can't just sit there at the table with this psycho and fake pleasantries, as if he hadn't just kidnapped you and taken you against your will. It all feels so wrong and contrived—he's only toying with your mind for the moment, but for how long will that last? Why won't he just do what he's going to do and get it over with? Why must he insist on dragging out the suspense?

When Jack sees your eyes glaze over and your fork falter, his knee starts to bounce anxiously under the table. He's obviously impatient, and perhaps even a little offended that you haven't started eating. "What's the matter?" he demands, his voice rather brusque, and the very sound of it makes you crumble into your chair. And that's when you finally break down, right there at the kitchen table.

Your tears fall hard and fast, and you can't stop them from pouring down your cheeks. Placing your hands on the table, you scoot your chair back as you sob, and Jack tenses, thinking that you might make a run for it. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He's watching you through hooded eyes, but you can hardly see him through your stream of tears. "I just can't do it. I'm sorry, I can't." Your emotions have finally become too much to handle, and you stumble blindly through the kitchen, desperately seeking an exit but suddenly finding yourself too incognizant to locate one. Why are you so dizzy? Did Jack put something in your drink? No, no, he couldn't have . . . .

"What—what did you give me?"

Jack is still sitting at the table, watching you fixatedly as you stumble throughout the kitchen.

"Give you?" he asks incredulously. "Nothing, yet," he responds, "but I don't need to slip _drugs_ into your drink to get you to do what I _want_." He laughs as if the very idea is absurd. "No, I can make you do what I want _without_ them."

His words just barely process through your head, and you dizzily collapse against the countertop, clutching at it with all the strength you have left. Your limbs feel like jell-o and you can hardly hold yourself up. You lift your eyes to the window above the sink, but it looks strangely far away and impossibly out of reach. If you could just gather enough strength to pull yourself up onto the counter maybe you could squeeze through it . . . .

Vaguely, you hear Jack's chair scrape against the floor, and the sound rouses you to action. You reach out for the window, but your limbs are much too weak and suddenly he's standing behind you, the warmth of his body all too acute. Why is he pressing into you like that? You groan at the contact as he softly, calculatedly forces you up against the counter, bent at the waist with your elbows to prop you up. He leans over you and places his elbows on the counter as well, trapping you as he leans over your back, his mouth teasing your ear. "Where are you going, sweetheart?" He laughs softly and the sound, if only for a moment, is almost pleasant, but you know better than that. "Don't you want to stay for a while?" When you don't answer, he suddenly groans and too-slowly grinds his hips against your backside, unable to contain himself. "_Mmm_." He smiles against your neck, his ripped scars puckering against your skin. "_I_ want you to stay for a while."

"Please," you're breathless, eyelids heavy, and still crying hard, "_please_ let me go."

Suddenly, something rings nosily, and you're so startled by the sound that you jump, your body giving a sharp jump. Jack presses more tightly against you to keep you still, but you can tell that he was surprised by the sound as well. The object in question rings again and it suddenly dawns on you that it's your cell phone in the other room. _I guess I didn't leave it on vibrate_, is your first thought, and then you start to realize that you might be able to get out of this if you could just get to it and call the police. They could track your phone and save you. _They could save you. . . ._

The thought lingers in your head and helps to clear the fear-induced haze that previously occupied it. Your muscles suddenly don't feel so weak anymore, the glimmer of hope creating an electric spark within your veins. Your cell phone continues to ring, and there's no time to lose.

Without warning, you suddenly bring your elbow backwards as hard as you possibly can. You nail him right in his gut, and Jack lets out a deep, muffled groan in surprise as he stumbles backward. Immediately, you straighten off the counter and twist around, sprinting into the living room. Your legs are shaking so bad you can hardly stand, but you try to pull yourself together, realizing that this is your probably your last and final opportunity to try and get help. The room is pitch black as you run through it, and you silently pray you won't stumble over any furniture in the process.

You follow the sound of your phone and quickly retrieve your bag, falling to your knees on the floor as you tear through it. Momentary relief floods through you when you have the phone encased in your palm, _it's right fucking there_ . . . but your heart suddenly slams against your chest in fear when Jack rips the phone away and tackles you to the floor. You're pushed flat on your stomach, letting out a cry when he wrenches the phone from your grasp, your fingers slipping from your phone and with it your last shred of hope.

"No!" you cry, practically hysteric as you flip yourself over and wrestle him for it. The phone has stopped ringing at this point but you don't even care. Jack only laughs and puts up half a fight while you scratch him and dig your nails into his skin, trying to retrieve your phone even though you know your effort is futile. He lets you push him around for a moment, smiling at you while you throw punches at him, but you're not doing much. When your nails suddenly dig into his neck, leaving a trail of blood in its wake, he quickly takes the initiative and straddles your legs, grabbing your hands in one of his and pulling them above your head.

"Oh, I love it when you put up a _fight_." His laughs rumbles in your ear as he leans over you. "What am I going to_ do_ with you? Hm?"

When he softly tangles his fingers in your hair, removing the clear rubber band that had been holding it captive in a ponytail, you let out a small whine and try to turn your head away. He only snorts through his nose in response and continues to comb his fingers through your hair, his nails lightly scraping your scalp. It almost feels good for a moment, but you don't let yourself be deceived. He leans in closer as he begins to grip your hair more tightly, suddenly giving it a sharp yank and bringing your face closer to his when your cell phone begins to ring again.

The blue light flashes repeatedly in the darkness and the ringing blares in your ears as Jack retrieves it from the pocket he had placed it in. He doesn't even glance at it.

"Now, here's what's going to happen, doll." He sets your phone on the ground and searches through his jacket again until he's retrieved his knife, placing it snuggly under your throat as he releases your hands. "You're going to answer the phone and assure the babysitter, uh, _Jaclyn_, that you're okay. Tell her you'll be home later than ex-pec-ted. Tell her . . ." Jack looks skyward and then suddenly smiles, "tell her you gotta a little . . . _tied up_. At work. Think you can do that?"

Oh, God, he even knows your _babysitter's _name. He actually_ knows_ Jaclyn's name. _He's probably been stalking her, too._ You're sick to your stomach at this realization, and your head begins to spin.

As the phone continues to ring, Jack grabs it, shoving it in your hands as he pulls you into a sitting position, still straddling your legs. "No time to lose," he mumbles, licking his lips.

He reaches over and clicks the talk button for you, clearly impatient, and then puts the phone on speaker so he can hear too.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you answer, your hands shaking as you grip the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey! I've been trying to reach you all evening." Jaclyn sounds relieved and you long to feel the same emotion.

"I—I'm sorry I just got a little . . ." you look up to meet Jack's eyes and he nods his head, signaling for you to continue, "I just got a little tied up at work. I'm going to have to stay for a—a little bit longer." You just barely hold back a sob at those words, but Jaclyn doesn't seem to notice.

"Oh, well, that's okay. I've got school in the morning, but I'll just call my parents and let them know that I'll be here for a little while longer."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Okay, well, I guess I'll see you in—"

"Jaclyn, wait."

Jack suddenly tenses at your sudden interruption and you wince as he digs his knife deeper into your neck, a silent warning that draws a sliver of blood. You meet his eyes through the darkness as you make your next request.

"Can I speak to Riley, please?"

Jaclyn pauses, confused. "Um, are you sure? I already put her to sleep."

"Could you wake her up for me? I would really like to talk to her."

"Oh . . . sure. Hold on."

After a few moments of silence, Jaclyn returns to hand the phone to your daughter. "Here she is."

The sound of bed sheets rustling and then static reaches your ears, and you cradle the phone closer as you eagerly wait to hear her voice.

"Mommy?"

"Hey baby," you say as sweetly as you can manage, tears immediately springing to your eyes at the sound of her tiny, fragile voice. The pressure of Jack's knife disappears in your mind and you forget it's even there as you sniffle. "How are you doing?"

"I can't sleep."

"Why not?"

"You haven't read me my bedtime story yet."

You pause for a moment, taking that in and closing your eyes in an effort hold back a fresh stream of tears. _Oh, God_. You put a hand to your forehead in utter despair, thinking of what you would do to just be with her right now.

"Mommy's working late tonight, honey."

"It's okay momma, I'll wait."

You smile a little, your first of the night, and cradle the phone closer to your ear even though it's on speakerphone. "You don't have to wait up for me, sweetie. You need to go to sleep because you have daycare in the morning."

Riley yawns, and you can tell she's tired. "Okay. Bye mommy."

"Riley? I love you. I love you so, so much. Always remember that, okay?"

"Okay," she chirps, blissfully oblivious of your current predicament. "Love you too momma. Bye!" She makes a kissing noise over the phone and you choke on a sob, covering your mouth to try and stop it.

"Bye, baby." The last words are whispered after the phone is clicked off, and suddenly the room is eerily silent. You let out a shuddering breath and hang your head wearily as Jack quickly removes his knife and confiscates the phone from your hand, hiding it somewhere within his jacket.

"See, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

You can tell he's grinning devilishly at you in the darkness, and you're sickened by the very thought of him smiling over your despair.

"You sick_ bastard_," you manage through clenched teeth, your jaw tight. "How can you be so . . . so _heartless_?"

Jack clicks his tongue thoughtfully and you notice that he seems put off by your words; irritated, perhaps. "I'm _not_ heartless. I _have_ a heart," he insists, working his mouth as he stares hard at you.

"You could have fooled me."

"I _have_ a heart," he says again, more fervent this time but still angry, "it just doesn't care about the same things that _you _do." Jack suddenly stands and wipes the spittle from his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. "And apparently that makes me some kind of monster." He cocks his head as he looks down at you, briefly running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "What do you think, doll? Am I a _monster_?"

You let several seconds pass before you answer, but when you do, your voice is a mere whisper.

"Yes."

Jack laughs, but his smile turns to a grimace when he suddenly bends down and hoists you up the lapels of your blouse.

"_Wrong answer_," he snarls.

Your eyes go wide and you let out a gasp as he starts pulling you towards the stairwell. "What are you doing?" you cry, starting to pant furiously. "Please, no! Wait, please _wait_!"

"Wait?" He snorts. "No, I've been waiting for far too _long_," he says as he drags you up the stairs, you clawing at his shirt. You glance up at the darkness that awaits you at the top of the stairs and your stomach gives a sickening lurch. You furiously try to twist out of his hold, but he only grips tighter and pulls harder. "Consider your warm welcome officially . . . _overdue_."

At the top of the stairs, he kicks open a door and pushes you inside. Before you can scramble to your feet, the door closes with a loud bang and is locked. You're suddenly swallowed in darkness, and the air, if possible, is even hotter and more stifling than it was downstairs. On your hands and knees, you gasp for breath, feeling suffocated beyond belief and not knowing what to do.

You hear footsteps and suddenly there is a dull light coming from the corner of the room. You crane your neck to see an old, wilted lamp, the lampshade partially ripped and titled to one side, shading the light and hiding most of it from the room. The window next to the lamp is boarded and sealed tight, not a sliver of outside light peaking through. There's a door in the opposite corner, probably a closet, but the rest of the room is oddly sparse.

You let out a whimper of surprise when Jack suddenly grips you by the back of your neck, pulling you backwards so he can whisper in your ear. "Say my name," he murmurs, his nasally voice sending shivers down your spine. Warm exhales of breath fall against your ear in excited pants, sending a fearful, chilling jolt of electricity surging through your body. You whimper as he secures his long, thin arms around your waist. He's kneeling behind you, pulling you in between his thighs as he nuzzles your neck with his face, closing his eyes and indulging in your scent.

Shivering despite the heat, you try in vain to squirm out of his grip. You turn your neck away in disgust as he wets it with his mouth.

"Stop," you gasp, twisting in his arms to push his face away. Your hands brush against one of his scars in the process, and you're surprised when he grumbles low in his throat at the contact. You recoil in disgust but it's too late. Suddenly, you're picked up and Jack roughly flips you onto your back, slamming you into the floor. You let out a cry at the impact but he doesn't even acknowledge it. He pauses to look into your eyes, his gaze alone enough to force you into the floor. Slowly, he groans as he encloses you in his wiry arms, locking you to the floor as he lowers himself over top of you.

For a moment, he just stays there, his weight pinning you to the floor, his taut stomach and chest pressed snuggly against your own.

"I want you," he breathes, lips hovering near your jaw.

In that instant, you can't help but think that, had Jack been any other man and this situation almost entirely different, your heart may have fluttered at such words of endearment. Seeing as how it was not, however, the words only serve to frighten you. You don't_ want_ him to want you. You want him to let you go.

"Let's _play_," he giggles against your neck, his breath humid and hot. Your body gives a sharp jolt when you feel his tongue languidly laving at your neck. He swirls his tongue almost reverently against your skin, mesmerized by your taste.

Crying out in frustration, you try to free your arms but quickly find the task nigh impossible. You writhe instead, twisting your body this way and that, but he only settles his weight more heavily on top of yours, completely pinning you to the ground.

"Get off!" you scream, arching up in an effort to push him away.

Jack only laughs against your neck, truly elated. "You don't even know what I'm going to do to you yet!" His voice is all electric excitement, and your heart pounds faster when he starts toying with the buttons on your blouse with his teeth.

"I have a pretty damn good idea!" you shout back, abruptly crying out and jerking when he pulls a piece of flesh in between his teeth and bites down, hard. He laughs at your reaction, a low rumbling in his chest, and then rests his forehead against yours, breathing deeply.

You stare into his dark eyes, frantically searching them back and forth, trying to determine what he's going to do next as he stares into yours. You can feel his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, and you know he's just as excited as you are, although for entirely different reasons.

When you look away for just a moment, just one mere second, his lips are suddenly on yours, your eyes growing wide at the unwanted contact. You're shocked, and you try to wiggle your arms free of his to push him away, but he only wraps them more tightly around you as he did before. His eyes are open as he forces his lips down on yours, grinning maliciously.

Enraged, you viciously clamp your teeth down on flesh of his bottom lip. He rears back instantly, and it's then that you start to think about the repercussions of your actions.

_Fuck. _

"You wanna play it like that, hm?"

And that's the last thing he says before he's at your mouth again, viciously prying it open with his fingers as you cry out in confusion. In response, he hooks a finger inside your jaw and pulls your mouth open. He leans forward then, and the next thing you feel is his hot, wet tongue invading your mouth, licking everywhere and trying to delve as deep as possible. Spit trickles down your chin as he forces his tongue farther, practically choking you and not caring in the least.

He groans obscenely as his tongue continues to probe your mouth in the most inappropriate manner, grinding his hips into yours with unnecessary ardor as you struggle beneath him. Apparently, he's not getting enough friction, because he breaks away from your mouth long enough to gasp out a few words.

"Mm, come _on_." He thrusts his hips, angrily. "_Move_." His voice is breathless anticipation and the sound of his growl sends goose bumps rising all across your flesh even though the room is swelteringly hot. He licks his lips and rests his forehead, slick with sweat, against yours as he slowly, ever so slowly, rolls his hips against yours, panting heavily as you do the same. He continues the same hard, slow rhythm for far too long and now you can't seem to catch your breath. The pain of his hips rolling so fervently against yours is enough to make you cry out, and you do, repeatedly. You're terrified of not giving him what he wants, however, so you halfheartedly arch your hips up to meet his, and the foul grin that stretches his wrangled mouth is enough to make you cry. He closes his eyes and slams your hips back down to the floor with his own. "That's it," he breathes, trying to encourage you but succeeding in only the opposite. He's like a machine, you think, his body rigid and wiry like a steel rod, entirely unpleasant with jutting hip bones and hands that grip too tightly. You can feel the muscles in his thighs tensing against your own, electricity coursing through his veins instead of blood. Everything about him is _wrong_.

When he starts moving faster, you know he's close to finishing. An unexpected sob claws past your throat at the thought, and you turn your head to the side, unable to watch him even as he watches you.

You can't do anything but lay there as he continues to violate you, tears gathering in your eyes, blurring your vision. You know you should try to fight back, scream, yell, do _something_ at the very least… but you can't find the strength to even move, knowing that it would only anger him further.

With an exaggerated groan, he finishes with a gasp and finally slumps against you, burying his face in your neck as his excitement fades, his heartbeat a shuddering drum. His tongue snakes out to swirl against your neck, and you whimper pathetically and try to turn your head in the other direction, only giving him better access.

He stops and simply lies there for a moment, willing his breathing to slow, and you're too terrified to ask what he plans to do next. He hasn't taken off your clothes yet, and you fear that he must be planning to do that next.

"Please," you suddenly whisper, "please get off."

You feel Jack smirk against your neck, but he doesn't look up. "I uh, I think I just di_d_."

Hearing those words make your gut wrench sickeningly. You're more angry then you have been all night, and it takes only a mere second for you to snap.

Like a rocket suddenly set aflame, you arm swings out and collides with Jack's jaw faster and harder than you had anticipated. The satisfying crack that resounds from the blow sends a wave of adrenaline washing over you, and Jack is momentarily knocked off balance, cradling his jaw.

Your stomach drops to the floor as you scramble to your feet, knowing that Jack isn't going to be too far behind. You reach the door and pull it open—except, it won't open. With a terrified cry, you jiggle the knob, but it just won't budge.

Without warning, you're pushed into the door from behind, and you scream when Jack roughly grabs a fistful of your hair, pulls back, and then slams your head into the wood of the door. The blow nearly knocks you unconscious, and in the dim light of the room, black and purple blocks of dizzying color flash before your eyes. Jack maintains his grip on your hair and rears your head back, snarling like an animal in the hollow of your ear. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Our little date's gonna be over soon."

With his other hand, he grabs hold of your neck and pulls your backwards, shoving you to the floor on your knees. You sob at the pain that's exploded in your skull and struggle to keep consciousness. Trying hard to hold back the tears that threaten to wrack your body, you cradle your head in your hands and bend at the waist, feeling completely helpless and sick to your stomach.

You can hear Jack doing something somewhere behind you, but you're too weak to turn around to look. Jack's voice is nothing but a dull echo in your head, and you strain to hear what exactly it is that he's saying even as your body trembles in fear.

"You know, doll, I was expecting this night to go a bit differently. You just didn't have the _stamina_ I was looking for. But you are . . . you are dangerous. Dangerous like _gasoline_." From behind you, the sound of liquid splashing rings in your ears. _What is that?_

Suddenly, Jack's behind you and is nuzzling your ear, his thin, spidery fingers splaying across your stomach. "And you know the thing about gasoline? It _burns_."

"What are—what're you talking about?" you barely managed to gasp out, hanging onto to your last thread of conscious as strongly as you can.

"You don't get it, do you?" Jack slowly moves around to crouch down in front of you, carefully lifting your chin and forcing your eyes to meet his. Leaning close, he disguises his voice as a deceptive whisper, hot breath fanning against your face. "You're going to _burn_, sweetheart. You're gonna burn for _me_."

Suddenly, the room shifts into acute clarity, the sharp sting of gasoline assaulting your nostrils and stinging your eyes. Mouth dry, you weakly let out a cry of protest, but the sound only emerges as a tangled web of fear.

"Ja—Jack." You hope that by using his name, you can draw some sort of sympathy from the black pit that is otherwise known as his heart. "Please Jack, oh, God, please don't do this." Tears flood your vision as your heart slams against your ribcage like a thousand-ton mallet. It feels like it wants to break free of your chest, even as your breath escapes your lungs in short, panicked gasps.

Jack only smiles and goes to stand. In utter desperation, you cling to his leg, sobbing, disregarding your humiliation and not caring in the least. This was life or death now, preserving whatever dignity you had left didn't matter anymore. "Please, don't. I'll do anything!"

Laughing, he unwinds your arms from around his leg, like one would with a small child, and then scoops you into his arms, holding you bridal style. You grip onto the lapels of his jacket, suddenly dizzy, and let your eyes adjust in time to find yourself in front of the closet door.

"Jack," you plead, breathless, "what are you doing?"

Jack stops and looks down at you almost adoringly, save for the arrogant smirk. "You're so cute when you're scared _shitless_," he laughs darkly and then opens the closet door.

Whipping your head around, you're surprised to find it empty, but your heartbeat only quickens in your confusion. You open your mouth to question him when he all but throws you into the closet, letting you fall to the floor with a painful thud.

"Wait, Jack—!"

The door is shut in your face before you can even finish your sentence, your heart dropping into the pit of your stomach when you hear the sound of the lock turning.

_God, no._

"Let me out of here, Jack, please! Let me out!" Your fists pound against the door until they throb, and even then you don't dare stop.

From beneath the crack of the door, you can see Jack's shadow; he's standing there, listening.

"There's no use begging," he says, voice cold and devoid of emotion. "You see, when I want something… _I get it_." You hear him click his tongue against the roof of his mouth thoughtfully. "And what I want," he continues, "is for you to _burn_."

That's the last thing he says as you watch his shadow disappear and you're left alone to your own devices, sick to your stomach with unadulterated panic and locked in a closet.

You immediately start banging on the door again, pressing your whole body against it and sobbing pathetically. You never stop, can't stop . . . that is until a strange scent wafts from under the door and catches you off guard.

Gasoline.

_He is really going to burn me alive, _you realize.

Gasping, you pound even harder against the door, screaming for help, praying that someone will hear you even though you know the odds are all against you.

You can't believe this is happening to you, it doesn't even feel real . . . but that all begins to change when the closest starts getting hotter, and you realize with horror that you can smell smoke.

The room is burning, and you're trapped in a closet.

The smoke is unbearable and accumulates quickly, already it becomes difficult to breath. You swallow hard as tears stream down your face, nails bloody from scraping against the door.

Sweat gathers at your neck and drips down in-between your breasts and the shoulder blades of your back, the heat intensifying. You scream out for Jack, knowing he won't come but doing it regardless.

After jiggling and fighting with the knob countless times, you start body-slamming the door, your survival instincts kicking in. Orange flames are already licking their way around the edges of the frame, lighting up the dark as a new kind of terror kicks in. You've never been more desperate in your life than you are now, and you're crying hysterically even as you slam into the door with all the strength your weak body can muster.

As the smoke gathers and the flames erupt from outside the door, crackling loudly, you let out a cry and slam your body one last time into the door.

Your breath catches in your throat when the bottom hinges give way only slightly, and you shove yourself against the door one more time to give it a final push.

The door gives way just a little bit more, but the gap is just big enough for you to squeeze through.

Heart pounding, you squeeze through it, the back of your shirt catching on the hinges and ripping slightly. Your heart's beating much too fast and you're too frightened to care as flames dance around you, igniting the room in sanguinary and orange hues. Flames chaotically slither up the walls like tangled vines, smoke engulfing the room in a tight blanket.

The air is asphyxial and you cough uncontrollably through the cloud of black smoke. The air burns your lungs and eyes, and for a moment, you're disoriented. There's too much fire, too much smoke, and you don't know what to do or where to go.

It vaguely dawns on you that Jack must have drenched the whole room in gasoline before he left, and you hate him for that even more than you hate him for violating you and bringing you here in the first place.

It only takes seconds for the room to become completely encased in fire. Flames begin hotly licking a trail up your legs, burning them, even as you scream and try to run from them. But you can't escape from fire, not as it crawls after you and teases the soles of your shoes, the rubber melting faster than you could have ever imagined and making you scream shrilly.

Through the black smoke and the flames and the unbearable, torrid heat, it's impossible to locate the door, and even then you know it's probably locked. With something akin to an animalistic cry, you try to barricade yourself in the corner of the room where the flames have yet to reach, all the while knowing that you only have so long before they reach you. Already your skin is starting to burn, and the pandemonium of swirling smoke intoxicates your lungs.

When the onslaught of flames finally reaches you once more, you move out of the way, only to realize that there is nowhere else to go. You desperately want to cling to that small vestige of hope you once had earlier in the evening, but it's utterly lost now, burning in the ashes of the flames.

So you scream. You scream in agony until your lungs burn, you scream until your voice is a mere whisper and you can't scream anymore. But even then you don't stop.

The room is burning in rampant, unstoppable chaos, and you along with it.

As the flames slither up your body and your clothes begin to burn, you let out one final, animalistic scream and collapse to the floor, succumbing to the smoke and the suffocating heat.

And then, suddenly, a loud, sharp bang resounds in your ears, your head jerking upwards.

Eyelids fluttering open, you're abruptly assaulted by a blinding white light.

_Am I . . . am I in a hospital? Did I actually . . . survive?_

Desperately, you look around, utterly confused and drunk on a mixture of emotions. You look down quickly and feel your arms with your hands, touching your soft skin, reveling in the sight of the unmarred flesh. You're not burning anymore, your skin isn't melting off your bones, and your lungs aren't filled with smoke. In fact, you feel perfectly fine, as if you hadn't just been left to die in a burning building.

_What the hell is going on?_

Panting heavily, you will your heart to slow and dazedly look around, stunned to find yourself in the same subway car that Jack had taken you from.

_Is this . . . is this really happening? Was that all . . . was that all a _dream_?_

God, no, it couldn't have been. It was all too real, it couldn't have just been a mere_ dream_.

But as you inspect your surroundings, you gradually come to realize that, as bizarre as the conclusion is, it's true. _It was all just a dream. _

Your gaze lifts from your lap when the train begins to slow to a stop and the doors slide open. You're too stunned to move, so you stay rooted to your seat, staring off into nothing and mesmerized by your own rampant thoughts.

Right before the doors start to close, however, a man steps inside, immediately drawing your attention. He seats himself on the other side of the car, facing you, but keep his head bowed, not looking up.

Something uncomfortable and sharp settles in the pit of your stomach upon seeing him, goose bumps scattering across your exposed skin. Swallowing, you reach up a hand to touch your neck, wanting to soothe the tense muscles there, when suddenly, you feel something warm and slick coating the tips of your fingers.

Slowly, curiously, you lower your hand and stare in shock, terrified by the wet, crimson blood.

_No, no, it can't be . . . . it fucking _can't.

Mouth parting in horrified awe, you slowly lift your head and immediately meet_ his_ hooded eyes from across the car.

His lacerated mouth and fleshy, puckered scars knowingly pull tight.

And then he _grins_.

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **I hope you all have thoroughly enjoyed this story. It was so much fun to write and through this experience I have learned a lot of great writing techniques. Thank you all for the continuous support and stunning reviews. This is the first multi-chapter story I have_ _ever__ completed, so any final comments you may have I would be more than delighted to read and respond to. Thank you all again for making this story so worthwhile! _


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